At night I hang my paper dolls across the ceiling –
they sway like dancing children
by the open window
They are charcoal slivers when my lids are shut
or the long black stems of the hydrangea plant
These are the lines they make in the light
holding hands –
A moving carousel of paper bodies
encircling a mirror
I stop here to watch their little mouths spreading wide
Drooling rosary beads onto the floor –
As they drop they burn in rhythm
behind my eyes
and I become dizzy and stop to ask them,
does my mother know me?
To her I am a golden egg, a piece of turquoise, the string of paper dolls
Yet I told them my room would be
shadowless, floodless,
From a fine ink line of calligraphy
the moon curls into one high point
and the paper bodies round me move
desiring to feel its light performing on the window ledge
